


Got Yourself A Gun

by klose



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence, Russian Roulette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3679233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klose/pseuds/klose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>HIGH PRINCES IN GUN SCARE</i>, read the headline.</p><p>(A post-modern take on the Fëanorians.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got Yourself A Gun

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old thing; most of it written in 2008, and the rest in 2010. It was meant to be part of a longer fic I'd dubbed "Post-Modern Silmarillion", and I did indeed write a few other bits of it, but at this point too much time has passed for me to be able to complete to my satisfaction. Still, I quite like what I have here, and figure it stands alone well enough as a ficlet/teaser.
> 
> This makes more sense if you're aware of the Quenya names used by the Finwëans (and Fëanorians, particularly).

* * *

 

Normally we wait for Dad to get back before starting on the evening meal, but today Mum said--in that don't-you-argue-with-me tone of hers that has even the mighty Fëanáro cowed--that we should get on without him. Just as well; it had been my turn to cook and I'd made a tempeh and kale casserole with couscous, which I loved but Dad hated. This way I'd be able to enjoy my dinner without his snarky comments about pretentious Vanyarin cooking.

But not for long, it turned out. We were barely halfway through when we heard the rumbling engines of Dad's Ferrari roaring onto the driveway. Mum's eyes narrowed, and her face took on a rather pinched expression, but she continued eating. Some minutes later, Dad swaggered into the dining room, calm as you will.

"I'm home," he announced, somewhat unnecessarily, I thought, since there weren't people in Alqualondë who didn't hear the noisy Ferrari.

Mum ignored him, and continued eating, but the rest of us paused, eager and interested to hear what Dad might have to say for himself.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, dragging his chair out from the usual place at the head of the table, across from Mum. "Tempeh and kale? Melkor's balls, Nelyo, you know I hate that vegan Vanyar crap."

There was a soft clink, and I turned to see that Mum had put down her wine glass. She was glaring at Dad, and I'm surprised he didn't fall dead right then and there from the sheer rage in her gaze.

"I hear you were busy in Tirion today, husband," she said, in what to me seemed a rather dangerous tone.

Dad's lips twisted into a smile. "You could say that, wife."

Something flew across the table and would have hit him straight in the face, if he had not caught it first. It was that day's copy of the Tirion Evening News. Most of the front page was taken up by a photo of Dad in Mindon Square, in the City, holding Uncle Nolly at gunpoint. In the background, I could see people screaming and fleeing the scene--caught on camera as blurs, mostly--while others stood by, seemingly frozen to the spot by shock and fear.

 _HIGH PRINCES IN GUN SCARE_ , read the headline.

Yeah, this was going to be difficult to spin in any other way than "I did indeed try to blow my half-brother's chest up, dear family, why do you ask?"

Still, Dad stared at the newspaper for a moment, and I could almost see the gears turning in his head, ruminating on how to talk his way out of this, I guess. Mum hated guns, and she barely tolerated us walking around armed. It helped that none of us had used them beyond target practice on the lawn. But this was one step too far. I was surprised the Tirion Metropolitan Police hadn't turned up yet.

Dad must have realised his precarious position, because he remained silent. He's usually got a retort to anything you say before you've even said it.

I watched him pour wine into his empty glass with excruciating, tedious slowness. He swirled the red liquid in the glass before taking a long sip. Around me, I could feel my brothers straightening their backs and pricking their ears, sensing that Dad was about to speak.

"No doubt you've heard the rumours," he began. "Of Nolofinwë's plots to usurp my position in Tirion, and steal my father's favour."

"So you went out to teach Uncle Nolly a lesson, right Dad?" asked Junior eagerly, and Morrie snickered, because that's just the kind of thing he'd find amusing--threatening other people and/or beating them up.

Dad's only response was a smile was full of self-satisfaction, but Mum wasn't having any of it.

"You think holding a loaded gun to Nolofinwë's chest is funny, do you?" she snapped, stabbing at a piece of kale with her fork. The sound of metal hitting ceramic echoed through the room.

"As funny as him trying to oust me as my father's heir," said Dad sharply. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing the shotgun holstered to his belt.

A gasp ran through the table. We never bring weapons to the dining table. Mum looked like she was ready to throw her plate at Dad and follow that up with a lethal choke-hold.

"You needed to show your face in the City," I started tentatively, hoping to delay further violence. "But surely a... diplomatic approach would have been more prudent?"

"As opposed what, shooting Nolofinwë's brains out?" muttered Mac, who sat across from me, on Dad's other side.

Dad scoffed, his fingers tracing the sharp lines of the black gun metal. He'd clearly heard Mac's dark comment.

"What?" he said mockingly. "You didn't really think I would do it, did you?"

Suddenly, the revolver was pointed to his head and his index and middle fingers were wrapping around the trigger, getting ready to shoot. I pushed my chair back, the dragging legs screeching with shock, but that was all I had time to do before he pulled the trigger, an agonisingly slow movement that seemed to take eternity. And I should know, for that's how long I have left on this Earth.

I almost fancied that I could see the path of the bullet as it shot out of the chamber and into Dad's skull, the sheer force of the close impact shattering his brilliant head into a mass of blood and brains (and hair and bones).

 _Click_.

We were all still there, hale and whole and uncovered in blood. Dad put down the revolver, calm as nothing, and I began to breathe again. Ty cursed and one of the twins vomited onto the floor. Mum, who looked furious, stormed off to get a rag. Nobody said anything.


End file.
